For Michael Jackson

For Michael Jackson

When God touches you there
you soar
in amplified magnificence
or fall into recoil

into a ball of epic self-pity
empty of blessing
shucked of benediction
but the only drug, ugly, beatific.

———————

This was written 10 days ago after reading Peter Conrad’s overview of Jackson’s life, “Who stole the soul of the boy from Indiana”,  at The Guardian, cribbing “epic self-pity” from the article.